Lessons in Vulcan
by TrueAwesomeSauce
Summary: 'Vulcans never - ' What? A variety of ST:2009 stories based on lines in TOS and the movies, on Vulcan Philosophy, or on quirks in the Vulcan Language. The gang's all here, and Spock and Uhura are a couple. Yeah. I mean it.
1. If There Were a Reason

Lessons in Vulcan

Standard _disclaimers_ apply. (_Dungi-tishau kuv khartau odu to-gavsular t'odu trasha na'nash-veh sochya t'nash-veh. Spohk heh nash-veh odu itaren.)_

_Kuv nam-tor lof_

It lay on its side, its fur matted, its breathing labored. It had been injured defending them against carnivorous 'monsters' on what Leonard had irritably labeled 'another god-forsaken ball of rock.' It was clear the animal was dying.

God help them, they were way overdue for shore leave, and had had more close calls than seemed possible, even for the crew of the _Enterprise_. Now they were on another routine survey mission; and ion interference meant that they would not be able to contact the ship for another hour, more likely two.

So much for Jim's insistence that this would be a nice day for a hike…

"Can you help it, Bones?" The Captain asked from where he was keeping watch.

"What do you suggest, Jim? I could maybe splint that leg, if I could find something around here to use, but there's not much I can do for the internal bleeding."

"The creature suffers, Doctor."

"Yeah, Spock, thanks for telling me. To even make a dent in the pain would take, oh, I dunno, four times what I've got in my kit, and even then it'd be iffy."

Spock paced over to where the animal lay.

McCoy lowered himself to sit on a rock, and slumped with his elbows on his knees, fiddling with the tricorder helplessly. He looked at the Vulcan standing over the wounded animal. "There's nothin'-but-nothin' I can do for it, I tell you."

Spock knelt, one of his hands smoothing the fur on the creature's shoulder. It seemed to calm a little, but it was obviously in pain.

Spock nodded once, and stood. He surveyed the area; but seemed unable to find what he was looking for, since he just knelt, again, a little way from the others.

'Great,' McCoy thought irritably, watching him, 'more Vulcan mumbo-jumbo.' Fun, fun.

Fifteen minutes passed, maybe twenty. The doctor checked on the creature again, then went over to stand with the Captain. "It's getting worse," he observed.

"Ship won't be back for a long time, Bones," Kirk had replied.

A few minutes later, they heard Spock rise and go over to the animal. Its near-constant wheezing whine was pitched almost too high for the humans to hear. It was struggling, now, but it was plain it was losing its battle. Spock knelt beside it, and placed his hand on its shoulder again, just for a moment. He pulled out his communicator. "Spock to _Enterprise_." His head cocked as he waited for the reply he knew was not going to come. "Spock to _Enterprise_." He looked back toward them and commented dispassionately, "Useless."

"Spock," Jim began, but the Vulcan was not listening. His attention was directed to the creature once more.

He put his communicator away, and quietly rubbed his palms together. He placed them on either side of the creature's head; and it calmed, stopped its struggles. His face was perfectly impassive. "I thank you for your efforts on our behalf," he said gently, "Forgive me." Before either of the others could really take in what they were seeing, Spock made a short sharp movement: He had broken the animal's neck.

It was dead.

McCoy started forward, but Jim caught him before he got two steps.

Spock was standing alone, his head bowed. He brushed his palms together again before straightening and moving away.

"Spock, what the -" McCoy began, but Kirk cut him off.

"Bones!"

He opened his mouth again - a shake then, at his elbow, Jim's voice saying, "Bones." He looked up at Jim, caught his eye. Jim shook his head once, maybe twice, and McCoy closed his mouth.

With ten minutes remaining at the end of their time estimate, they had finally been able to make contact. The Captain had been quiet in the meantime. The Science Officer had kept a silent lookout. Doctor McCoy had seethed.

Now, they were back on the ship. Spock had delivered his samples and data to the labs, and completed his reports. He exchanged a few words with the Captain, who sprawled in the Command Chair looking every bit the master of his domain. As the turbolift doors whooshed open to let McCoy out, Spock headed toward his station - presumably to start some new research.

The Doctor hurried to intercept him.

"What the _fuck_, Spock?"

Now it was Leonard's turn to grab an elbow and stop someone mid-step. It felt good, actually. Relieved some of his tension.

Spock stilled, while McCoy kept talking. "I thought you people didn't believe in killing. You wanna explain just what the _hell_ you thought you were…"

Spock's eyes rose from the hand clasping his arm, to the furious ones of the Doctor.

McCoy's met them, tried to blink, tried to look away; failed.

Gone were the warm brown eyes that followed Uhura when she walked by, making her smile; gone were the indulgent eyes that gleamed just the tiniest bit when everyone else laughed and laughed; gone were the expressive eyes that told of a heart that McCoy pretended didn't exist.

These eyes were black as space itself, as terrifyingly distant, as cold, cold, _cold_.

"What would you have me do, Doctor?"

The words were quiet and absolutely uninflected, but there was something in them, almost an accent, that reminded McCoy that this was not just another man, but something _other_.

Involuntarily, his hand dropped. He felt disoriented, like he was tumbling.

"_Kuv nam-tor lof_ -_ Vuhlkansu ved kup-stau – k'ozhika eh k'yeht-urgam_." Those alien eyes moved away, disinterested, but the empty Vulcan voice continued, "You would do well to remember that."

The moment was gone. Spock had calmly seated himself at his Science Station and deliberately inserted an earpiece. Within seconds, the Commander's hands were dancing over the console, with their usual unconscious grace.

McCoy's chest heaved for air. His trembling hands reached up and scrubbed over his forehead, scrabbled in his hair, fell in sheer exhaustion. Fuck, he was tired. He really needed a vacation.

He gave a little squeeze to Uhura's shoulder as he started to turn away. Her cool slim hand came up to cover his, held it until he leaned over her with his back to the rest of the Bridge.

"'If there were a reason, a Vulcan is quite capable of killing – logically and efficiently,'" she whispered. "In case you wanted to know."


	2. To Like

'_Tishau' eh 'Ritishau' _

They were in his office late on a Thursday afternoon. She had been his aide, now, for 3 whole weeks.

She had already completed the simple grading of the exam administered that day, and had taken advantage of the quiet room to finish her own assignments as well. She considered herself to be off the clock; and as the background noises in the building faded and time passed in the serenity of the little office, she found herself relaxing more than she ever had in the formidable instructor's company.

So, now she was curled in the visitor's chair, waiting for him to finish adding remarks to the student essays.

Loving language as she did, she had been discomfited as she looked through them. She was embarrassed for these cadets, who were supposed to be among the best and the brightest... He was an excellent teacher, and these guys just totally seemed to have missed the point - but as he worked, nothing in his posture suggested anything but contentment.

The students were even, for the most part, writing in their native language! Vulcans, she knew, learned Standard as a matter of course, and since they were just as able to converse in that language as in their own, few humans bothered to return the favor.

She thought they were missing out.

She had realized that studying his native language would be a good way to understand his culture better (and - though she avoided looking too closely at the idea - through it, _him_). It was working, too. Though it was complex, and she sometimes couldn't find the right word to express what she wanted to say, for the most part she found Vulcan, well, _logical_.

She lazily flipped through her notes, and came across something that had intrigued her.

"Commander?" she asked, then waited until he had raised his head slightly to indicate that he was listening. "This text says that '_tishau' _translates as 'to like,' and '_ritishau'_ as 'to dislike' - but aren't those kind of emotional concepts?"

"An excellent question, Cadet." He had turned toward her, then, and folded his hands upon his work. "Your dictionary was written by a committee of native speakers of Federation Standard English, and then subsequently approved by a native speaker of Modern Golic Vulcan. It is my understanding that the FSE word choice in this instance is intended, in part, to convey the casual nature with which the MGV phrase is used. Therefore, "to like" fits: Though it would seem to ascribe an undue emotional element, it is nevertheless the most common verb used in Standard to indicate one's satisfaction or contentment with an object, situation, or being. I would argue that 'to be pleased by' or 'to find agreeable' would be equally valid translations: Though the phrasing is more formal, the actual definition is more closely aligned to Vulcan philosophy."

"And '_ritishau'_?"

"The opposite."

"But, sir, that's the thing - what _is_ the opposite of 'to like'?" She sat up. "I mean, does it mean 'dislike' – like an active 'She's really mean. I dislike her,' type thing; or more 'not like,' a 'hmm, this is not as agreeable as I would have expected' sort of thing?" She was totally engaged, now, hard-won dignity forgotten in excitement; her hands flapping a bit to help her get the words out. "Because those two things don't really mean the same thing at all…"

He had looked at her for several long seconds, before leaning back slightly in his chair.

"Miss Uhura, the English language is varied and complex; and yet, though human beings have a variety of word options available to them to convey delicate shades of connotation, they tend to use the same words over and over - with the all-too-frequent result that the information which is intended to be conveyed becomes well-nigh unidentifiable."

She started to protest, until she saw an unusual gleam in his eye as he paused before continuing, "Words such as 'like,' 'mean,' and 'thing,' for example, are very much used by Standard speakers."

There was another tiny pause. He seemed to be waiting for his words to sink in.

_No_. He couldn't be teasing her. (Could he?)

"Be that as it may," he continued blandly, "To answer what I believe to be your question: As you know, in Vulcan, word choice is much more limited. Nuances are conveyed through word choice, yes, but also through word order and combination and, as may be causing your confusion in this case, affixes. '_Ritishau'_ is 'to not like;' and whereas it is improbable that any Vulcan would choose to tell you that he actively dislikes another person, he very well might prefer to not spend time in a person's company, finding that person to be less than agreeable."

She digested this for a moment. "Oh. Okay. Thanks."

His gaze, then his full attention, returned to his work. She sat for another minute, then curled back up, considering first his words then that little something she had glimpsed in his eye. He was turned a bit away from her, and if she looked up at him, she could see him in not-quite-profile. It was a pleasing view. Very pleasing. She found it agreeable. And she found herself liking him, very much.

Oooh, Nyota, not going there.

'_Ri ritishau'_ – 'Not to not like'. Huh. _Vulcans_.

She idly turned over another page of her notes.

"Sir? '_Aitlu'_ – 'to desire'?

The Commander was silent for a long moment. His eyes never left his padd. "I think perhaps it is time for some tea," he said.


	3. Human Understanding

_Komihnsu Kunan_

Kirk and Spock had an Unspoken Understanding.

They worked together, every single day – and Jim thought that, although he was technically the superior officer, they were equals to the bone. There were many ways in which he believed First Officer Spock was the superior one; and the Captain could never do his job, he was beginning to understand, without that cool level head at his shoulder.

But Spock, though he had been Captain (however briefly) said that, in fact, he did not wish to command.

And Captain Kirk struggled to understand.

Spock would always do his duty. Since command was part of that duty - and he had an aptitude for it - he had trained and prepared to fulfill that function.

But, though Spock would never say it in such a way, Jim knew that that was not where Spock's passion lay.

Spock was a scientist, through and through. For the Science Officer, few things were as exciting as knowledge. Unanswered questions bubbled in his blood. In the unknown he saw infinite possibilities. In cold hard data, Spock could see beauty. In emergencies, he saw problems to solve, and solutions to find – worthy applications of his abilities. He could take the improbable, and make it believable, even practical.

And Jim could understand that.

As best he could, he understood the Vulcan Spock: The one who stood shifts like his Human counterparts, then lived his Vulcan life in the midnight hours left over when his Vulcan body was done with sleeping.

Jim would wake sometimes, and roam the corridors; and he might see Spock on the Bridge or in the labs, his hands flying, as he worked, with a preternatural speed that he held back out of courtesy when the Humans could see.

And this was part of their understanding, too: It had begun when Jim, seeing Spock's hands begin to slow, had hurried by… Now, Kirk knew, Spock recognized his Captain's footsteps: They would ignore one another, unless Jim chose to speak.

But in the gymnasium - when the heat had been elevated, and Spock was focused on his combat training - he could not hear those footsteps. And so, in the wee hours, when Spock was not to be found on the Bridge or in the labs, this was one part of his ship where the Captain chose not to go.

Jim could also understand the off-duty Spock, the one-on-one Spock: This one would appear, to silently haunt the Rec Rooms, but seemed to welcome inclusion in the activities of his shipmates: A game, a discussion or conversation, the performance of some music. This was the Spock who surprised Jim, sometimes, with his observations or his revelations. This was the one Jim thought of when he just could not understand.

Because then there was the private Spock: The Vulcan one who shared his quarters and his life with a Human woman - who joined her for meals, and left in her company – and who no one, who did not _know, _would ever imagine doing such a thing.

And this was the Spock most difficult to understand.

When First Officer Spock, dutiful, and generous toward his more fragile shipmates, would choose to stay on the ship when others left on shoreleave, Uhura would sometimes stay, too. And the others would think nothing of it except to feel a bit bad that the Communications Officer would have to suffer such strange, silent company. The two made no comment on the state of their affairs; but because of who and what he was, the majority of the crew could not imagine any affair for which comment might be necessary.

Of the Bridge Crew, some suspected – or hoped - and the core of them _knew_, but it was never a topic for discussion.

Though this was the Spock most difficult to understand, this was the one with whom Kirk had formed an unspoken understanding.

On the shoreleaves when Uhura did not stay on the ship - when Spock, alone, went about his duties, and assumed Kirk's command - Jim tried to return the favor, as best he could.

When their party would go to a bar or a club, Jim would order her drinks, and flirt until she smiled. He would make sure she laughed, and danced as much as she wanted. He would see that she ate, and made it home safe. If an admirer or drunk came on too strong, Jim would stand and call him out – or throw the first punch.

And when it had been too long, Jim would call the ship to get a report – making sure he gave one, as well, as subtly as he could.

When shoreleave was over, he'd return to the _Enterprise_, heading to the Bridge as soon as possible. He would stride from the lift with a breezy rundown of they'd all done. The First Officer would stand, and the Captain would come to stand beside him. Kirk would listen to the solemn report on Ship's Status - and he would look the Vulcan in the eye for just a moment, and nod with complete understanding. Then he'd sprawl in the chair and say, "Thank you, Mr. Spock, for looking after my girl. You are relieved."

And when the Commander left in the turbolift, Kirk would let his hands run over the arms of the chair, and his eyes over the Bridge; he'd hear verbal reports from the personnel there. And he would imagine Spock walking to his quarters to do much the same.


	4. The Vulcan Way

_Yut vuhlkansu_

Vulcans, Nyota Uhura had discovered, were perfectly willing to make pronouncements about all things Vulcan - and, for that matter, all things not. When she was feeling philosophical, she wondered why they were all so willing to be painted with one colorless brush. Here, on a 5-year mission on the edge of Deep Space, Commander Spock was still making those pronouncements.

"Vulcans never bluff."

No? 'Never'?

Well, maybe it was a logical statement, after all: She knew for a fact that everything he threatened – no, offered – no, _suggested_ – that he would be forced to do, he would follow through on, whether he liked it or not. Else, he would not have said it in the first place, because unnecessary words were not logical, either. And Vulcans do not lie.

Still, she knew that, to the Captain, it was a lot amusing and a little irritating. (To Doctor McCoy, it was incredibly irritating. But, really, everything was, so that hardly seemed to matter.) It would be even more irritating, she supposed, if the pronouncements weren't so… factual, even true.

But, she had long since realized that what Vulcans did _not _say was at least as important as what they _did_ say.

Today she was presented with another perfect example.

She and Spock had been working in companionable silence side-by-side on the little couch in his quarters. She had stretched languidly and asked whether he would mind if she put on some music.

"Not at all," was his mild response.

"Beethoven?" she had suggested.

"If that is what would appeal to you, Nyota, Beethoven would be acceptable," he had replied, head still bent over his work.

She had studied him for long moments, before breaking the silence again.

"Spock, do you even like Beethoven?" she asked.

"Of all Earth composers of the mid- to late-Eighteenth century, Vulcans do tend to favor Beethoven," he had answered without looking up, his voice perfectly calm, his mind partially elsewhere.

She sighed. She could let this go.

Or not.

"Spock, do you even like Beethoven?"

"The musical compositions of Ludvig von Beethoven are considered to be some of the most influential and lasting of the 'Classical' genre. The complexity of his harmonies appeals to the mathematical mind; analyzing it can be beneficial to one desiring to induce a focused yet relaxed meditative state."

"Yes, Sweetie, I know that. But that's not what I asked."

Now he looked at her, his gaze fixed upon her face. He did not say anything, just waited. She thought about just waiting, herself, for him to get it. Maybe he already did, although his eyes did not have that glint that they sometimes got. Still, he was a very patient man, and it was perfectly possible for the two of them to sit like this for a long, long time.

She leaned toward him, just a little. Still looking into his eyes, she reached out and gently placed her hand on his forearm. She asked, "Spock. Do you like Beethoven?"

"Yes," he said.

She thought that that was going to be all. She waited, though, just in case.

… 27…28…29…

He looked away; let out his breath: "But I prefer Mozart."


	5. Vulcans Do Not Believe in Violence

_Dva-tor ri Vuhlkansu svi'khrash_ -

The first time it happened (at least, when she was there to see it) she didn't quite recognize its significance.

They had beamed in to – well, quite frankly, it was a mess.

Like always, it was supposed to be a simple routine mission. Communications with Science Base GT34 were disrupted, and though scans of the planetoid were almost impossible to read accurately, the base was too far away from much of anything - and too unimportant in scope - for that to really worry anybody.

The _Enterprise_ was passing nearby and Starfleet suggested they drop in and see how everybody was faring - No, really: The Captain made it sound as casual as that. Which is how the Captain and the Chief Science Officer and the Chief Communications Officer happened to beam into the mess…

It should have been an empty sensor hub.

Instead there were pirates.

Did she mention there were pirates? There were. Lots.

She had pulled her phaser and fired, and fired, taking out the ones closing in until they got too near for her to be sure she wouldn't hit Kirk or Spock.

Old-fashioned brawling was the Captain's personal fighting style. He jumped into the center of a pair and started whaling every-which-way. It was taking a while, and he was getting as good as he gave; but he was clearly having the time of his life, even as a third started in.

Spock moved like a whirlwind - if a whirlwind could be said to have a fluid harnessed grace. His movements were almost too fast to see; and though she was perhaps the one member of the crew who had a true grasp of the fact that he was, in fact, alien - not just an expressionless man with fascinating ears - it still was startling to see him move this way. The pirates seemed to recognize that he was the bigger threat, and gravitated toward him. He waited for them to come.

Kirk's fight was making a lot of noise; and she spun slowly, phaser at the ready, to take out anyone attracted by the sound.

Then Spock was beside her, pushing the weapon down, and steadying her. She gasped and hauled in a lungful of air. Had she been holding her breath? She looked around.

The Captain still had an opponent left. Blood splattered from his knuckles with every blow. The other two were at his feet, and he had to step over them as he fought.

Spock raised his tricorder, started to scan.

Obviously there were not any more coming, since he just stood with her and waited for something to change in the Captain's fight.

Kirk seemed to sense the surrounding stillness – He firmly delivered one final uppercut and the pirate collapsed.

Kirk shook himself a little and turned to meet Spock's eyes, and hers. He smiled.

Spock moved forward, and said something to the Captain, his posture as relaxed as though they were standing in the Briefing Room – not in the midst of a body-strewn bay. He indicated the tricorder and made some observation she couldn't quite catch.

She looked around again. So far, none of the pirates showed any sign of returning consciousness.

Kirk's three guys were quietly bleeding.

Spock's opponents appeared, for the most part, like they were peacefully sleeping. There were a lot of them. She decided not to count them. It would probably just worry her the next time he left the ship.

But when they got home, she let him have it. And Spock, she would have sworn, had been surprised.

The second time it happened (when she was there to see it), she couldn't believe it.

Captain Kirk had provoked the fight, of course. Today, to the promise of an old-fashioned brawl, he was adding off-hand swagger - with mockery thrown in as a bonus weapon. He was practically holding a sign that said "Hit Me!"

So the first guy had.

Everybody else just stood there; and by the time the rest of the landing party had recognized what was happening, Commander Spock had taken out the others in his almost leisurely fashion, with quiet steps and well-placed nerve pinches.

And that is when it happened: Spock stood to one side and watched the Captain fight.

He did not draw his phaser, even on stun. He did not step in. He did not distract that opponent - and he did not allow the others to do so, either.

After another minute, Kirk seemed to realize he had an audience: He threw one last series of blows, and his opponent went down.

Spock had moved forward, then, and drawn the Captain away – as casually as though they had just met outside the turbolift on the way to lunch.

Jim hadn't said anything at all about it when they returned to the ship; and he was the only one sweaty, much less bruised and bloody. He, idiot that he was, had the nerve to grin at her, as he lifted battered knuckles to dab at the corner of his mouth.

She cornered Spock and challenged him in no uncertain terms.

"What would you have liked me to have done?" he asked calmly. "The Captain was the one attacked. Nevertheless, he did seem to be in control of the situation.

"My interference could have precipitated worse."

She continued to glare, in spite of this sensible observation. Mildly, he said, "None of our personnel were truly injured, and I was able to effectively prevent the infliction of damage on the others."

Obviously, she still was not satisfied. He had coolly observed, "Vulcans do not believe in violence, Nyota. But not everyone shares that philosophy."

Then Spock seemed to recognize the warning signs flashing in her eyes. He spoke again, his voice soothing, and oh-so-reasonable: "Perhaps if you could consider this to be a case of Infinite Diversity…"


	6. Vulcans Have No Word

_Ri Ma Vuhlkansu Ri Zhit Na'Ish…_

Vulcans, she knew, were, well, uniquely Vulcan. There was no way you'd ever imagine they were anything else. And, if you were so foolishly inclined as to make such a mistake, they would be quick to point out the error of your thought processes - Most likely with one of those infamous pronouncements…

"You must be joking, Commander Spock!"

"Vulcans never joke."

The unwonted stiffness, deadpan delivery, and repressive not-glare with which the pronouncements were usually made, made it clear to her that he knew exactly what he was doing.

It was obvious that it frustrated Doctor McCoy. He'd get snippier than ever when Spock said that sort of thing. She forbore from pointing out that that was probably half the point: Doctor McCoy, of all people, should have been able to tell the difference between a Vulcan and a calm pale Human, even without the ears and the haircut… But he still insisted that, somehow, Spock was (any minute now) supposed to suddenly start being, much less acting, like everybody else.

Yeah.

Still, those pronouncements…

They got to her sometimes. She knew that she was only human. Sometimes it made her crazy that Spock, brilliant even for a Vulcan – and as little accepted as he had been as a child – should be willing to lump himself in with them like that.

She recognized that her opinion in this matter might be biased: She thought him unique, and special. She loved him.

She told him, once, in an unguarded moment, that she was glad he was her boyfriend. He had turned his head in that slow, slow way; and his eyes had met hers. "Vulcans have no word…" he had said, and 'boyfriend' sounded alien on his tongue.

She tried - really tried hard - to accept him as completely as he accepted her, in all her frail human glory.

But she was guilty, too, of forgetting his Vulcan-ness. It didn't happen often, anymore, as they settled into this whatever-it-was that they had together.

But still, sometimes she'd have a crap day, and want him to coax out of her the little annoyances that she'd been subjected to. She'd want him to commiserate and tell her that of course 'they' were mean and horrible and that she was right, as always...

He wouldn't; couldn't.

At least, now, he'd just stay with her – he would hold her as she cried, or listen as she ranted - without saying something perfectly rational and reasonable to draw attention to the fact that she was acting anything _but_.

Actually, it was an excellent arrangement.

She made a mental note: Vulcans make excellent mates. 'Boyfriends'? Not so much.

She smiled. She could live with that.


	7. Incunabulum of Accord

_Tveshu t'Kunan_

"Incunabulum?" Captain James Kirk sat back and looked at his stoic First Officer in astonishment. "Did you just say 'incunabulum'? Are you fucking kidding me?"

The Vulcan's only response was a slow blink. Then he looked away.

When he saw that, Jim felt kinda bad – When Mr. Spock averted his face, it was never a good thing. Jim had begun to think of it as the equivalent of somebody else shouting, or swearing, or storming off. He leaned toward the other, over the table. "It's 'fuck,' right? Geez, Spock, I'm sorry. You just surprised me, is all."

Commander Spock was eying his Captain. (Doubtfully? Jim wasn't sure.)

When Spock had walked in to the Rec Room this evening, at the Captain's request, Kirk had played diplomat and officially stated that he thought he and Spock should each relax and communicate in his own way.

The Vulcan had deliberated, then nodded his agreement.

Honestly, though, Jim just didn't think that it would be so difficult. For one thing, he hadn't considered the possibility that 'relaxed' would mean even more big words than usual. For another, he hadn't really counted on all of the silence.

There was a lot of silence.

Jim raised his hands and shoulders in a small shrug. He smiled, but it was an apologetic smile.

He tried again. "Sorry I said 'fuck,' Spock." Then, "Sorry I said it again – twice."

Spock still didn't speak, and Jim wondered whether his First Officer was going to stay silent the rest of the evening. That would be a bummer. The game they were playing was actually pretty fun, and he thought he was beginning to get the hang of the strategy. Not to mention, Spock was sorta interesting to talk to, when you could understand him.

Spock was gazing at him as though he were a botanical specimen, or a mildly intriguing chemical equation – or a particularly stupid student. After a full minute had passed, the Vulcan spoke, his lips forming the words carefully. Spock's tone, when he repeated the offending words, was stripped of spontaneity; and Jim had the uncomfortable feeling that he was facing a test. "What I said was 'Congratulations, Captain, I recognize within your actions evidence indicating an incunabulum of deliberate tactical consideration.'"

Jim knew he couldn't say what he was thinking, because that would have him saying 'fuck' again.

Apparently, Spock thought that perhaps the silence was purposeful: He waited for a response, and when none was forthcoming, the Vulcan spoke again.

"I am not certain that your experiment is proving to be as successful as you had hoped." His tone was a little flat.

"Excuse me?" Jim said.

Spock neither shrugged, nor sighed.

He gazed at Jim again for another long moment, before leaning back in his chair. He looked a little tired, even defeated - which was different. Spock's eyes moved around Rec Room Eight for a minute, then back to his Captain. His spine straightened again, and he was Spock-the-Intimidating once more.

Or would have been, except that now Jim had seen him slump in a chair – well, sorta, anyway.

When the other asked, in his calm, reticent way, "Sir, why did you ask that I meet you here?" Jim still wasn't sure whether it would bother him if the query went unanswered.

But he had asked.

"Uh, because I wanted to hang out with you." The Captain's voice turned it into a question, without him telling it to. "And, honestly, I think it might be good for some of the crew to see us hanging out - You know, being buds…"

"What reason did you offer for asking me to join you?"

Hmm. "I wanted to try to figure out where you're coming from."

"That is not, precisely, what you said."

No, probably not, Jim thought. He figured if he stayed quiet Spock would help him out.

"You expressed the opinion that you and I could strive to understand one another more completely."

"Yeah." He was pretty sure Spock had Vulcan-ized that, but it sounded closer to what he might have said… "It seemed like it should be worth a try."

"I agreed." Spock was looking down at the table, long fingers righting one of the out-of-play pieces scattered across it. "I still do."

"You did - do?" He knew his surprise made him sound like an idiot, but he didn't really care at the moment. "Really?"

"Yes." Spock seemed mildly amused by his astonishment. "Such understanding would, indeed, be worth considerable effort. And this," His tiny gesture took in the game and the Rec Room, "did seem an excellent way to begin a rapprochement."

"A…"

"A rapprochement: An accord. Harmonious relations. A friendship, Jim."

"Oh," Jim said, "Cool."

"'Cool'?"

"Uh, 'cool': Good, excellent, worthy…" He looked up and saw that Spock's eyebrow had risen, just by a fraction of an inch. "You know exactly what 'cool' means!"

Any amusement was erased from Spock's voice by the time he spoke. "Indeed I do. As an adjective, 'cool' means moderately cold. 'Cool' means composed, deliberate, lacking in enthusiasm or warmth, aloof or unresponsive, and unaffected by emotions. It also means calmly audacious, though that particular usage is more rare."

It occurred to Jim that this was a word that Spock had heard – or, more likely, _over_heard – a lot, and not when it mean anything good.

Jim held back this 'fuck' pretty easily. He really wanted to say 'I'm sorry, Spock, about all the assholes you've had to deal with', but that didn't seem quite right, either.

Spock was watching him not speak.

"That word does not offend me," Spock said.

"What?"

"'Fuck.' The word 'fuck' does not offend me. I have little cause to use it; and…" Spock was still talking, but Kirk did not hear a single word.

Jim was aware that he must _look_ like an idiot now: His mouth was practically hanging open. "Mr. Spock, did you just say 'fuck'?"

"I did. Twice."

Jim raised his eyes to the deep brown ones that were looking at him very levelly. Even coolly. He opened his mouth a few times, but nothing came out.

"Captain. Please try to focus."

Jim took a deep breath; then exhaled. "Listen, Spock, I'm sorry: You lost me at the first… you-know." He tried to look apologetic, and then decided he'd have better luck just letting his face do what it wanted. "Would you please repeat the rest of it – without saying 'you-know' – 'Cause that'd probably just short-circuit my brain again."

Amazingly, Spock nodded complete understanding. "Of course, Captain. I appreciate your honesty."

Jim realized that was simple truth.

People hanging out around Spock pretty much started to mimic his behavior – standing stiffly, talking formally, trying to school their faces and hold back their emotions, pretending to comprehend what he said… For a while now, the Captain had found it hysterical. It hadn't occurred to Jim before, but it must be pretty weird for Spock. Even though it was an unconscious thing, they were still pretending to be something they weren't – and to somebody like Spock, who valued truth almost more than anything, it must seem a lot like lying.

Looking at him, Jim shrugged. "Sorry. I wandered off again. I was thinking about honesty."

"No apologies are necessary."

"Okay. But, still: Thanks. As you were saying…?"

"As I was saying, that word does not offend me. I have little cause to use it; and, since it is rarely used to convey its true meaning, but instead is used quite idiomatically, I would be unlikely to use it properly. Therefore, I do not make the attempt.

"In addition, I am aware that it would be jarring to others to have me use it.

"Quite frankly, Captain, I find it to be vastly overused as it is. Standard has a very large array of words that can be used in its stead, and most of those are more appealing. But the word itself is not offensive."

Jim didn't want to be insulting, but Spock did appreciate honesty: "Well, you're right," he admitted a little reluctantly, "It is jarring."

Spock didn't say anything to that, but his silence felt like an acknowledgement anyway. Maybe he just figured it was self-evident, and nothing more needed to be said.

"I hadn't really thought about it," Jim reflected, in a minute or two, "but we do substitute that word for lots of other ones that could express what we mean better."

Spock nodded, once.

"But, really, Spock, we don't use it for its meaning, or any meaning at all. It's more of an emotional thing."

Again, Spock nodded. It seemed like he wasn't going to say anything else, but then he changed his mind. Still, he didn't appear to relish saying the words a third time: "As I said, I have little cause to use it – and would be unlikely to use it properly, in any event."

God, Jim thought, that seemed kinda sad. He couldn't imagine what he would do if he couldn't blow off some steam every now and then... He was aware of being impressed a bit by Spock's self-awareness, though.

Really, he didn't think that much about this sort of thing, himself.

"Spock, can I ask you something?"

Spock looked a little wary, but he still said, "Ask."

It seemed sort of an odd way to put it, but Jim decided maybe it was Vulcan shorthand: Those guys liked to say as few words as possible, he had long since concluded. 'Those guys'? – Like the guy right in front of him? – _Spock_?

So, anyway, Spock looked a little wary, but he still said, "Ask."

"Do you find it jarring when we say it?" Jim wondered.

The other responded readily enough: "I no longer do, no." He made a miniscule gesture that Jim decided to interpret as a Vulcan dismissal. "Now that I understand the common Human use of the word, I am adjusting to the concept - alien though it might be - that emotional displays are not in poor taste within your culture. I must admit that they can be uncomfortable for me to witness; but as I have chosen to immerse myself in a society that finds them useful, even healthy, I am attempting to reconcile myself to the likelihood that I will be forced to do so."

After making a quick mental note to ask something else, Jim tried to digest what the other had said. He figured he could get a lot out of thinking about this, later, but he wanted to make sure that Spock had really said what he thought he'd heard: "So, emotional displays – even little ones - are rude on your homeworld - on Vulcan?"

Spock nodded, but he had turned his face away again, just a little, and his dark eyes seemed to be looking at anything but his Captain. Jim was trying to figure this out, when Spock evenly replied, "Emotional displays are uncomfortable for Vulcans, because we do consider emotions to be in bad taste." His chin came back the tiniest bit, and his eyes slid back to Jim's. "In essence, then: Yes."

Talking to Spock – or, rather, listening to Spock - could be seriously weird (and not just because he expressed ideas like 'showing emotion is rude alien behavior that gives me the very logical willies; but since you all are forcing me to see that, I'm trying to deal'). There were the things he said, which were often complicated enough. Then there were the things he didn't say – and the levels of thought that went on behind both… Hidden in silence and stillness there was a whole set of conversational conventions that Jim was only just beginning to glimpse.

At this very second, he had the disconcerting sensation that Spock was – politely, he was beginning to gather – not saying something that would cause Jim to experience and express some particular emotion: Embarrassment, perhaps? ('Oh, yeah,' a tiny part of Jim's brain whispered, 'that's an uncomfortable feeling, alright.') Spock was watching him, waiting for him to speak, but Jim's mind had hared off again. He was thinking back on what he could have said or done that would cause Spock to think that he might get embarrassed, and as he did so, he stared idly at the man in front of him. Jim played back through the last bit of their discussion: Spock looking wary, what he had asked, what Spock had said, what he - He caught a blurred movement across the table; he brought his eyes into focus. Spock was no longer watching him: Jim found himself presented with one pointed ear.

Spock had surely deduced that Jim was replaying their conversation: He knew Spock did that all the time – The Vulcan could pretty much recount entire negotiations word-for-word if he were asked to do so.

So what had Jim said next?

_Oh._

In the second before he opened his mouth to stammer out words of apology, Jim suddenly got it: Spock hadn't turned away to hide his own face. No… Spock had turned away so that he wouldn't be looking at his Captain's face when Jim realized what he had said.

So totally and completely weird.

Sitting across from Spock, with his foot firmly lodged in his mouth, it occurred to Jim how strange it was to have somebody follow what you were thinking, like that.

He wondered what it would be like to live on a planet where everybody tried to be as logical as possible. He guessed that if everyone was all logical, then their thought processes would be logical, and then, logically, you should be able to figure out what they were thinking, most of the time. Yeah – half the time, you probably just wouldn't need to have a conversation at all...

Which, if you thought about it, explained a whole lot.

Jim felt like he spent half his time expressing surprise or whatever, and the rest feeling bad and apologizing for stuff.

Speaking of which… He would never know what living on a logical planet was like, and Spock might never experience it again - because Vulcan had been fucking destroyed: A fact which Jim had forgotten about 2 minutes ago.

He took a moment to breathe, and figure out what to say.

"Spock," Jim said earnestly, and Spock slowly turned his eyes, then his chin, toward his Captain.

"I apologize for what I said – You know…"

Spock was just looking at him.

Jim tried again. "Listen: I'm sorry."

Spock's head tilted a little to one side, and Jim was feeling a bit like a plant again. Spock still didn't say anything; and after a minute, Jim just couldn't stand it. "What?"

"Did I not say, some minutes ago, that apologies are unnecessary?"

"That was before I - " Jim trailed off. Once again, something in Spock's attitude reminded Jim that his First Officer was a former professor. In his head he heard 'Just answer the question, Cadet Kirk," and, really, that seemed to be a better idea than tripping all over his own tongue.

"Yes, Mr. Spock, you did."

Spock nodded, once.

Jim looked at him for a minute, again with that vague feeling that this was a test.

He took a huge breath and let it out. He tried to rid himself of an uncomfortable bellyful of jumbled feelings; and focus, instead, on his statement: "Listen, Spock, on Earth, when one person has done something to offend another person, it's only polite to apologize, and try to make it right. You know, discuss what happened…"

Spock's response was impassive: "Captain, while I appreciate your giving me an opportunity to – how is it you would phrase it? – 'talk this out,' I assure you that it is unnecessary."

"'Unnecessary', Spock?"

Spock inclined his head.

It seemed for a long time that that was going to be his only response. Apparently, he sensed Jim's incredulous staring, though, because after another minute, he spoke.

"In Vulcan society, we assert that 'there is no offense where none is taken.' I have not taken offense at your words or your actions. Therefore, whereas I recognize your Human need to acknowledge your thoughtlessness, I have no feelings in the matter that would occasion an apology."

Jim still just stared at him.

Wait a sec…

Surely Spock didn't just imply that if he got upset, it would be his own fault - Did he?

Spock continued, in his equable manner, "An apology presupposes emotional connection to a specific situation: 'I am sorry' is short for 'I am filled with sorrow.' And the customary response, also, implies an emotional attachment to one's position - which I am not comfortable, at this time, expressing, as I would be untruthful in making such a statement. 'I forgive you'?" He shook his head. "No."

Jim still had nothing. Seriously?

Spock's voice was musing, now. "Although, I suppose silence, the polite response in my culture, would seem less so in yours, if a mutually satisfying dialogue is the intended outcome of an offered apology.

"But I cannot deliberately say something I know to be untrue, even to assuage another's guilt. Perhaps I can find some response that will acknowledge the words, and the emotion behind them, without compromising my own integrity."

His eyes lifted to meet Jim's squarely. "I will meditate upon this."

Spock's eyes were amazing, Jim thought. He had noticed, but not really _noticed_, how much they reflected of his thoughts. Not even the emotions, really, though those were surely there, too - but with Spock, they just seemed sort of irrelevant, somehow, most of the time.

"Spock," Jim said, "People have apologized to you before. I know they have. It's not like you have been living… only among Vulcans all this time."

"That is true. They have." Spock looked away. "However – no disrespect intended – often the apologies were insincere, and usually no response was desired. Amongst my colleagues, of course, none was expected." This last was matter-of-fact.

Now Jim was pissed. "That's really pathetic, Spock."

Spock's eyebrow was rising. "Pardon me?"

Jim hunched forward, and his words emerged in a rush: "Well, that people say stuff that they don't mean, and that you have to adapt to our way of doing things all the time. It seems to me that we should be able to figure out some way of just _getting_ it, okay?"

The tiniest trace of amusement glinted in Spock's eyes.

They sat there in silence for a long time, while Jim slowly recognized, then stewed in, the absurdity of that impulsive outburst. When the silence dragged on, he wondered whether it was possible to actually die of embarrassment.

Spock leaned back a little in his chair. Jim pictured Bones heaving his boots up on the edge of his desk: The effect was much the same.

"Indeed," Spock said, equably. "Though change is an essential process of all existence, perhaps it is fortunate that in Vulcans, just as in Humans, it is sometimes slow to proceed."

Jim chuckled at that. "Indeed."

Spock nodded that single crisp Vulcan nod, and now Jim saw it as a smile, too.

"So, if I apologized, right now…"

"I would acknowledge your need to do so," Spock said smoothly.

"Right. Thank you, Mr. Spock."

Oh, that was definitely a gleam. Spock's chin tilted down, and he shot one swift glance at his Captain before dropping his eyes to his hands. "No thanks are necessary," he said, in a cool, even tone.

Jim couldn't help it – He started to laugh.

It had been a long time. A really long time.

Once he started, it lasted a while. Every time he thought he was going to stop, he looked across the table: Spock was staring at him steadily with that completely blank Vulcan face – and it just made Jim laugh more.

Finally, in between bouts, he managed to force a few words out: "Oh, my God, Spock, stop. Seriously. Look over there, or something!"

And when Spock obligingly turned his head to look across the room at nothing in particular, Jim was able to get a grip.

Still, it was another minute before he trusted himself to speak. "So, Mr. Spock – No apologies, and no thanks?"

Spock glanced at him, then. "They are not forbidden, Captain. They are simply not necessary." He was examining the table once more, righting another game piece before lapsing again into motionlessness. "We hold that any rational person will, logically, do what he can, or must. One does not 'thank' logic.

"Perhaps you will understand if I say that it is illogical to utter words which are unnecessary?"

Now it was clear that Spock was simplifying for his benefit, again, but Jim really didn't mind. "Okay. Fair enough."

Spock gave his small, serious Vulcan nod: An acknowledgement - which Jim interpreted as 'thanks.'

They sat for a time in silence. Then a thought struck the Captain. "Spock, do all Vulcans talk like you do?"

In contemplating Spock's probable answer, Jim realized that the question was very vague, and he quickly appended it. "I mean, in Standard - using big words, and all."

"No, of course not." Spock's glance was swift. "Do all Humans exhibit similar speech patterns?"

Jim shook his head. _Duh_.

"Neither do Vulcans."

Indecipherable eyes were directed past Jim's shoulder - studying, apparently, something only Spock could see.

"However, those of us who do have opportunity to converse, at length, with native speakers of Standard do have a propensity for formal structure - as that is both natural to us, and an acquired habit of diplomacy. And we do tend toward the multi-syllabic." He glanced at Jim, momentarily, to see if he was following. Jim nodded, and Spock's gaze returned to the middle distance. "The Vulcan language is comprised, primarily, of basic roots and affixes. Such words are used in combination, with the result that we are accustomed to utilizing compound words of many syllables."

"Root word choice in Vulcan is limited. It is a very literal language – designed, now, more for exchange of fact, than personal expression." He had shifted, a little, so that he was sitting much as he did in the Briefing Room. His eyes were on his templed fingers; yet, as he continued, Jim was able to see his eyebrows draw together the tiniest bit (belying the businesslike pose) before smoothing out again. "Some of us find Standard to be… refreshing. And we prefer to avail ourselves of the variety your language offers." His fingers folded together: A sign he was almost done speaking. "But, as Vulcans, we do try to choose words that carry a precise meaning, so that we may use as few as are necessary to express exactly what we intend."

After digesting that, Jim grinned. "So, basically, you are saying that, although Vulcans are all individual, any Vulcans I am liable to encounter in conversation have a high degree of likelihood of speaking in a way similar to yours. And, really, that is only to be expected – It is logical, in fact."

Spock blinked once, then met his eyes with very solemn brown ones. "Well said, Captain. In short: Yes."

Jim's grin grew wider. "Awesome."

It seemed Spock had not given full information: Jim recognized the signs of a briefing considered inadequate – but he also sensed the Vulcan's hesitation.

When he continued, Spock's voice was sober, and his eyes had shifted away, again, so that he was no longer watching Jim's face. "However, you might wish to bear in mind that fact that my particular experience is atypical: My mother was an English teacher prior to her marriage. I grew up listening to, then engaging in, conversations held in the language she loved so dearly."

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. Jim felt his smile wiped away. There really was nothing he could say to that. He nodded, and leaned back in his chair. He recognized this as an unconscious attempt to give Spock a little more space - and he didn't try to stop the motion.

He realized that, hidden behind formal words and customary behavior, Spock had shared some pretty personal information – and not just about his Mom. When Spock talked, you had to really _listen_. Jim wondered, just for a second, how much he had missed in the last couple of months…

Looking at his First Officer, now, Jim didn't see a blank face and rigid posture. He saw, instead, determined physical control and hard-won peace. He leaned forward, a little. He dropped one hand onto the Vulcan's forearm, and was ready with a smile when the other looked up. "I am sure she would be proud, Spock. You do speak beautifully."

Spock didn't say anything. His eyes were intent upon the Captain's face.

Jim leaned back into his chair, and his hand slid gently from that blue-clad arm. As he spoke, it gestured in a kind of shrug: "And, hey - If we don't always listen, or understand? Trust me: That's not your fault."

Spock nodded. "Thank you, Captain."

Jim smiled at the other's words. But he didn't reply.

The two sat in silence, then, for a while.

Jim idly toyed with one of the deserted game's playing pieces, then casually made a move. Spock responded, though he did not appear to have been paying any attention whatsoever to Jim's actions.

In this desultory way, they finished the game.

The night crowd were starting to drift in, and the Rec Room was getting noisier. One table toward the back was becoming a bit raucous – in spite of the continued presence of Captain and First Officer. A word or two of conversation was easily discernable over the rising din.

That reminded Jim of what he had wanted to ask, before. "Spock - "

Spock was gathering the discarded game pieces. He glanced up.

"You said you 'no longer' find the use of… 'you-know'… jarring."

Spock began to put the pieces away, his motions as precise as ever. Without looking up, again, he nodded. "You must understand, Captain, that culturally, Vulcans are very literal-minded."

"Oh?"

Spock still wasn't looking at Jim. His hand stilled. "If you tell me that a tree is green, I will automatically attempt to assess the quality and quantity of its greenness. In this way I will learn something not only about the tree - but about you, the speaker having made the assertion." He put the last pieces in the box, and closed it. Only then did he look up.

Deep brown inscrutable eyes met wide blue ones.

Jim blinked, as he considered the implications.

There was a long pause.

Spock's cool level voice continued, and Jim tried to follow it through the mirthful haze starting to form in his mind – He didn't want to miss a single calm word, and the fact that he was not speaking, himself, apparently meant that Spock was compelled to carry on…

"You might be able to imagine that for a person unfamiliar with Human emotional displays, many popular expressions can be quite confusing. That word, in particular, is used in a variety of situations and circumstances – the majority of which, as described, seem most undesirable - Improbable if not actually impossible." He sat back and folded his hands on the game box.

Only then did he seem to notice the reddening face and watering eyes of his companion. His eyebrows drew together by the tiniest fraction of an inch. "Breathe," he said.

Jim just put his head down on the table, then, and pounded it with his fist.

When a stray thought was able to formulate, then force its way through the laughter burbling in his brain, this is what it was: This was the best conversation – the most _fun_ – he'd had in a long, long time. Never, _ever_, would he have imagined Spock could be such good company – or so damned funny.

The Vulcan had risen to his feet, apparently intending to abandon Kirk to his madness.

"Wait, Spock, wait!" Jim managed to gasp. He grabbed the other's elbow, and started to stumble to his feet – Spock had to help him. He was so fuzzy and wrung out from laughing, he felt like he was drunk. He threw his arm around the Vulcan's waist; and leaning on him, started to steer him out of the Rec Room. "Listen: Does this mean you're not going to start using it in conversation?"

Spock seemed to consider. His voice was grave. "I hardly think so," he said.

"What about when its definition is what you mean?" Jim waggled his eyebrows suggestively, knowing that that was a question even Spock would ignore.

But he was mistaken.

"Not even then," Spock said very blandly, "I find it tasteless: Perhaps one could say that it has lost its flavour through familiarity. Further, it would seem a shame to waste the opportunity to utilize one of the other, more palatable words whose varied definitions and connotations are readily available for thorough exploration by an adept English-speaking tongue."

Jim gaped at him, a little uncertainly. "Did you just make a joke?"

Spock looked at him levelly. "Why would I choose to do such a thing?"

"I dunno, Spock, but I think you did. I think it may have been a dirty one, too."

One eyebrow rose, possibly in challenge. "You must be mistaken."

Jim had stopped walking, and his eyes were searching the other's face. "Okay, okay: Not a joke." He thought a second. "A double entendre?"

Spock's voice was very cool, indeed; his pronunciation precise. He was looking down the corridor. "I am Vulcan - Surely you would not imagine me to be so skilled as that. Perhaps you are misled by the fact that I spend so much time on extended endeavors in conjunction with an expert linguist?"

"Oh, my God." This time the hilarity hit like a runaway train, so hard that for a time Jim couldn't even laugh: All of the air in his lungs had escaped with that single phrase. He pressed his hands against his side, and leaned against the corridor bulkhead. He bent over, then, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. "Oh-my-god, oh-my-god, oh-my-god," he was muttering, like a mantra.

If he had any doubt, before, about Spock, it was erased now.

"Captain, are you alright?" The Vulcan's voice was concerned, maybe even a touch anxious.

Jim just raised one hand. He shook his head. "Fine." Spock reached to steady him. "Stop…" Jim uttered weakly, "...talking!"

His First Officer made certain that Captain Kirk was under a reasonable degree of self-control before he allowed them to continue at a very sedate stroll.

Jim thought about asking whether Spock had ever seen anybody laugh like that before - but, somehow, that seemed like too personal a question.

He also considered making some kind of joke about making him lose it. 'Three times in one night has got to be a record - even for a Vulcan… even for you, you smart-ass!' were the actual words that sprang irreverently to mind – but just thinking about saying that to Spock made breathing difficult, so he decided to let it go.

Then, as they walked, he found - to his surprise - he genuinely enjoyed the silence. It was a companionable sort of a silence. He was hesitant to break it with unnecessary words.

After several minutes, Spock made a quiet observation that, unless the Captain needed assistance to return to quarters, he had work to do in the Chemistry Laboratory before retiring.

Jim felt a little bit bad that he had asked the other to meet him, keeping him so long when he had other things to be doing; but Spock's quietude made an apology seem superfluous.

"Nah, Spock, I'll be fine. Thanks." He caught the end of a small Vulcan nod. "But, before you go, may I ask you something else?"

He glanced over at the strong profile with its distinctive features. Vulcan eyes shifted toward him, but, though Jim was prepared this time, the other did not say 'Ask.'

"Would you tell me what it was you were saying when you said inka-, Inca-…?"

"Incunabulum?" The amusement was back. It was very, very faint, but Jim heard it clearly.

He nodded.

"I was speaking of strategy, at the time."

"Okay. I'll bear that in mind." He stopped walking and looked at Spock expectantly.

The Vulcan stopped, too.

"Spock, listen. Could you try – just _try_ – to say it like I would?"

Spock paused to consider the request, then assented: "I will endeavor to do so." Jim thought maybe there was the tiniest trace of doubt in the grave voice.

He took a moment for thought, then gave a brief nod: Jim was ready when he spoke again. "I said, 'Good job, Jim, I see you're beginning to understand.'"

They stood in silence for a minute. When Jim didn't speak, Spock favored him with a formal nod, then went on his dignified way. Before he rounded the turn in the corridor, however, he looked back. Jim caught a tiny glint in a brown eye beneath a straight black brow.


	8. Locks are for Others

_Nam-tor Klacheklar Na'Vathular_

Spock was Vulcan. He never locked his door.

When their relationship was very new, she had expected him to lock the door, turn out the lights, shy away from her touch.

He had been surprised by that expectation.

He never locked his door. Courtesy demanded that others signal their presence - and that they have immediate access if the need were great enough. The few who would take advantage of that openness also would not choose to abuse it.

Illumination, he said, was, with very few exceptions, an enhancement to any activity. When, in a moment of insecurity, she had pressed him, he had admitted, very reluctantly, that his senses were such that he had little need of the additional stimulus; but that, since he would be unable to provide certain other aspects of an intimate Human relationship - to which, no doubt, she had become accustomed - it seemed only right that he provide for her what he could.

Looking into his deep, deep eyes in the dim flickering light, she had been surprisingly appreciative: It did allow her to see much that they both knew he would never say.

Behind closed doors, he welcomed her touch. Physical intimacy did not make him uncomfortable. Once he learned of her desire, his decision was made. Once it was made, that was that. They had nothing to feel awkward about, nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide from one another. What they had together was private, yes, but not wrong.

And pleasing her, he said, was only logical.

Mental intimacy, something she had never really considered before, was more problematic.

In general, he was very quiet. Until she became comfortable with that, she would anxiously try to fill the silence - and miss the opportunity to listen, and to hear. Eventually she learned to say what needed to be said – and to wait for him to speak.

Most of the time, she just though of him as Spock – 'Vulcan', yes, but wonderful. The occasional startlingly clear glimpse into the workings of his mind reminded her that he was not just different, but profoundly alien. It was invariably shocking; but often – increasingly - enticing, too.

Aware of her discomfort, he kept much of that part of himself shielded. It was natural for a Vulcan to do so: Far more than the body, the mind and one's thoughts were personal, and remained private, separate - concealed. However, if she asked him a question, he would answer as best he could, and with total honesty. (Sometimes, though, she wished he did not value truth so highly.)

There were certain aspects of his culture they did not discuss. When she got too close to one of these topics, he simply said that this was something of which he could not (or would not) speak. She quickly recognized that he really did not wish to shut her out – and that the rewards of forcing him to talk were not worth the tension he would experience as he struggled - often only to deny her access in the end.

He was very careful never to point out that she was different than he was, or imply that she was somehow less – though she would sometimes press, and he would gently identify, then, the way in which he was the different one. She learned to appreciate this distinction.

She was amazed by how accepting he was.

It made their emotional intimacy easy: They knew where they stood. She shared. He did not.

His cues were subtle but plentiful, as often eloquent in their absence as their presence - There was plenty that she could read. His honesty here became a virtue: Though it remained unspoken, she knew absolutely, in her core, of his regard for her.

When she accepted him, just as he was, she was amazed, too, how very wrong most peoples' perceptions of his kind were.

Vulcans were logical. They were private. They were intelligent. They were strong. Those were the things people got right.

So, in public, on-duty, they were professional. Spock was able to completely segregate the public and the private halves of their lives.

Nyota tried, with a little less success - though it got easier with time. At first, she would turn her head and look at him on the Bridge, and her heart would ache a little when he did not gaze at her with melting eyes, in the way of boyfriends past. But he noted her glances – and repaid them in full, in his own way, when they were alone.

Standing nude before her, he had invited her to look and explore, to touch and to taste. 'Invited her', because communication between them must be clear and straightforward. (He was a scientist and was nothing if not precise.) He had invited, because he had every intention of doing the same to her - and wished for her to know she could do with him as she pleased.

But still, she was only human. Sometimes, she couldn't resist, and she would tease him, just a little – changing the words of a song in progress when he walked into the Rec Room, drawing two fingers along the table's edge as he read a report, saying something under her breath when no one was looking their way. His face would stay perfectly serene, but his eyes would close, just for the space of a heart-beat. It always made her smile that she could affect him so deeply – so she didn't do it often.

Once, as he sat in the center seat, she had caught his eye as it made its impassive survey of the Bridge. He had been speaking to Lieutenant Kyle; and as she crossed and uncrossed her legs - one hand casually shifting the hem of her skirt - he had stopped mid-sentence to catch his breath. His voice continued, as cool as ever – and his gaze swept past her for the rest of the shift. Later, in his quarters, when he told her what it had cost him, she decided never to do it again.

Well, not on duty, anyway.

It amused her, a little, that the rest of the crew were so quick to assume he was cold, and modest. Well, he was cold - and modest, for that matter - in the 68-degree corridors of the ship… But in the warmth of his quarters, where the temperature did not chill him, he was perfectly at ease.

She had never known anyone so completely in tune with his own body – what it took to maintain it, what drove it, what it needed, what it could do. He knew its limitations, and continually strove to overcome them, exceed them, expand his capacity.

They thought he was like a machine? Well, maybe he was – but a well-oiled one.

He was very well aware of what that body could do, and what it did to her to have him know it…

Some evenings, when they were both off duty, they would meet at the Officer's Mess to sit with some of the other Bridge Crew; or in Rec Room Six or One, to eat with her friends, or with some of the other scientists. They would sit far enough apart from one another that no one would be watching for them to touch. She would laugh and chat; Spock would sit quietly, listening - perhaps contributing an observation or two, rarely much more.

She was an expert in communications – and he appreciated opportunities for resolving the mysterious unknown.

She had myriad ways of letting him know her desires for the evening's activities. As dinner progressed, she would subtly do so – crafting intricate conundrums for him to unravel - with words, with references, with delicate gestures secreted within her conversation – so that when they were alone, they were both more than ready.

As they prepared to depart, she knew that the Bridge Crew must be curious: Working together all day, they formed a tight-knit group, and cared about one another's happiness - and she and Spock gave little indication of the state of their affairs.

The scientists might be envious – She had his brain all to herself.

Though inquisitive about her Vulcan friend, her other friends, and the rest of the crew, she was quite certain, were feeling sorry for her – leaving, as she was, with the silent ice-cube - positive she would have a boring evening; and (if they had made the unlikely assumption that the two were together) wondering whether there was enough pity in the universe to make one of them stick with one of him, if their situations were reversed.

As they rose from the table, Spock would take his leave with old-fashioned courtesy. They would walk, sedately, back to his quarters. The more urgently she had been communicating with him during the course of the evening, the more grave and formal his behavior would be, so that, by the time they had made that short walk, she would be driven half-mad.

Sometimes, not looking at her, he would make some small observation about her state or condition in his cool mock-clinical voice. She knew that anyone watching, or even listening, would think that statement purely innocuous – any other interpretation a figment of an eavesdropper's impure imagination. "Miss Uhura, your rate of respiration has increased by 7.6%," he would say.

It would immediately jump by another percent.

He would fold his hands behind his back so that she could not accidently brush his skin. She would try to catch his eye; and he would be very polite, but look straight ahead. He said he did not wish to tease her - certainly not before it was time. She was sure he knew that this was exquisite torment.

Now, she was no longer frantic when the door closed behind them. She had learned to wait for this, too: When they had first become intimate, she would impatiently rip off her own clothes while Spock undressed. Then she saw the beauty his unconscious grace gave even a task of so little meaning. He had noticed her watching, had rightly interpreted the hurried glance away… Now, as she leaned against the closed door, he would lock eyes with her, and slowly disrobe. His movements were not exaggerated: He simply peeled off the layers, with intense deliberation - revealing, bit by bit, miles of pale skin that seemed to glow, faintly, in the dim light.

She would be drawn to him, inexorably; so that, by the time he had stripped completely, and she could see the curve and hollow of his flank as it melded into a long, lean thigh, she would be close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body.

Tonight was no different.

She reached out one hand – He stood perfectly still, awaiting her touch. She brought it to rest over his heart. She imagined she could feel the faint tick-tick-tick-tick-tick, almost too rapid to make out. Watching its progress as it travelled over him, she slid her hand sideways across his taut stomach, then up his chest, his fine, springy hair brushing against her palm.

She could feel the tiniest prickles as her fingers came to rest along his jaw.

Her eyes rose to meet his again, and her feet moved one step closer.

In silent slow-motion, his chin turned into her palm, and, without dropping his eyes from hers, he kissed the inside of her wrist.

At last, his eyes closed, for one undying second.

Tonight was no different: Watching him in the heated Vulcan half-light, she burned.


	9. Serenity

_K'Kvai Ek'Sochya-bosh'es_

Spock may have been only 'half' Vulcan, but he had a full measure of Vulcan-ness. More, maybe; and right at the moment, that was pissing her right off.

Well, maybe not: I mean, she was already furious before she got here – and, actually, that had nothing to do with him. But his complete lack of… well, _any_thing, in response, was doing a real number on her remaining self-control.

She had stood for a good minute in the silence of his quarters, glaring, her hands on her hips; and his eyes had not even opened. Not a muscle had twitched.

She crossed her arms; and she thought about stomping one foot, but she suspected that that wouldn't get her so much as a raised eyebrow. So _that_ would be a total waste.

She gazed at him for one more second, looked up at the ceiling – or through it, maybe - and sighed.

She supposed he was breathing, slow, and deep, but there was no outward motion to prove it.

She took a deep breath of warm fragrant air, blew it out quickly; and went into his neat, shining bathroom, waiting for the door to close between them.

At the sink, she reached toward the little edged shelf. With hands no longer shaking, she lifted down the second glass – the one Spock had, without comment, brought for her after she'd used his to brush her teeth, that first time or two – and filled it with cool water. She took a sip – then a gulp. The liquid was soothing as she swallowed it, calming. She held it up to the light – It was clear, clean, perfectly calm.

She'd had enough, and she considered, just for one instant, dumping the rest down the sink; but here, in Spock's bathroom, that was, somehow, unthinkable. She drank the rest, and tried not to feel refreshed - tried not to think how good it tasted.

She put the glass back, nestled next to Spock's on its gleaming shelf. She glanced in the mirror, then, and met her own rebellious eyes. She frowned, ran one hand over hair already perfectly smooth, straightened her dress - straightened her shoulders.

She went to the door.

Spock still had not moved.

To be fair, he was already deep in meditation before she arrived. She had known he would be, although she didn't really want to admit that fact.

He had left the Bridge an hour before she did, on his way to one last meeting at the end of a much longer day. His day had been trying, too, she supposed – and it wasn't his fault the Captain had chosen that moment to be… Jim.

Still.

She took off her boots, moved to the closet, put them neatly away.

She went to the bureau, and was just reaching up to slip out one earring, when she glanced in the mirror. His reflection caught her eye, and she stopped, startled.

He was beautiful.

'Of course he is,' part of her brain started to whisper; but she hushed it, and just looked at him, at his peaceful mirror image. He knelt, perfectly composed, and perfectly still. His eyes were closed, his lashes black and motionless; and there was such a serenity about him that she thought that if she moved closer, she might touch it, like a force-field – move through it, and be enfolded...

She turned, then, still gazing at him - and obdurately resisted taking even one step closer.

No.

She turned back to the mirror, firmly, refusing to recognize the stubborn set of her lips. Raising both hands, she untwisted the long single lock wrapped around the base of her high ponytail, and unfastened the band that was holding back the hair. She dropped the band haphazardly into the small ancient bowl on the Vulcan tray that he had provided for her, to keep her make-up and hair things tidy, in readiness. Her hairbrush wouldn't stay on the burnished golden surface: It continually slipped off to live, instead, next to his. She grabbed it and dragged it roughly through her hair. One good strong swipe – there. And several softer ones, gentler – just because she could. It felt good, but not as good as when Spock did it: He would reach around her, leaning just a little, so he could see; and pull long smooth strokes from her brow all the way back to the ends - gentle, deep, and even - as she sat on the floor in front of him, safely encircled by his long, long legs.

Enough. She was done: She dropped the hairbrush abruptly on the bureau's surface, where it bumped and jostled against his own sleek black one – not shifting it in the slightest.

She frowned, and turned away.

His words were quiet in the room's hush. He did not often choose to address her in Vulcan - unless she initiated a conversation to show that it was welcome - but now, as his mind came back from wherever it had gone, that is where his tongue went to, first. She wanted to find something about that sad - and she likely would, later – but now she just listened to the tranquil beauty of his voice as it spoke his first language. Clearly, he had been far, far away. "_Ki'smertal ein-vel na'odu,_" he said: 'Something has upset thee.'

"_Ha_," she said; and when she felt too much tension leaving with that breath, she spoke again, curtly. "_Ha_. Yes."

He hadn't opened his eyes; he did not acknowledge her attempt to switch idioms. He remained still, and Vulcan serene. "_Istau otu variben nash-vel k'nash-veh._"

At least it wasn't a question: Of _course_ she wanted to talk about it.

Although - Maybe this really wasn't important; maybe it was just a passing annoyance. Probably. But still…

He looked almost ridiculously beautiful, like some statue come to life – and she was not going to be able to let loose with a proper vitriolic diatribe, with him looking like that. And she wasn't going to be able to do it, certainly, if he kept speaking so gently, so formally – completely motionless.

Serene.

She marshaled some impatience. "Spock."

"_Ha, Niota. Nazhu-tor nash-veh._"

"Okay, you're listening. But –"

"_Ri 'hilar' – Nazhu-tor._"

'No 'buts'.' Not a Vulcan phrase, at all. It sounded funny, and sweet, on his Vulcan tongue.

She moved toward him - knelt in front of him, imitating his Vulcan pose.

She gazed at him - his impassive face - serenity written across every surface, smoothing his natural angularity, with stillness masking his strength… How was it possible that he could be even more beautiful close-up? She spent all day working beside him; she went to sleep, and woke up, in his arms: Surely she shouldn't be seeing him, still, with such startling clarity? Surely familiarity should blur his beauty for her?

(Surely his heat, his scent - his presence – should not feel so much like home?)

She closed her eyes, folded her hands in the formal Vulcan way; surrendered the last of her anger in a single cleansing breath.

She inhaled, filling her nostrils - her lungs - with warm dry scented air.

She breathed.

She listened – and heard the beauty of still silence.

Silence, still.

One warm strong hand slipped up between her palms, separating them. Two fingers lay across hers, pressing gently, surprisingly intimate: A ritual gesture, maybe – but an effective one.

She opened her eyes, and saw their hands, together: Vulcan and Human, male and female - in a link that had to be equal to work.

She raised her eyes slowly, as he did the same. He was gazing at her, then, his eyes still dark from their inward-turning. She had to smile: He would not – he was not - forcing himself out of that peaceful Vulcan state, just for her benefit; and she knew that he was content – with this moment, this connection: With her.

Spock – her Spock – was listening.


	10. Games

_Games_

Sulu and Scotty leave the Briefing Room looking just a little too grim.

The Captain chuckles, and pokes his head out the door to watch as – shoulders slumped - they head down the corridor. "Better luck next time, gentlemen," he calls after them, with sympathy a little too hearty to be real; then turns back into the room, shaking his head just a bit.

His amusement isn't altered by the sight of the frown that greets him next.

"Could have been worse, Bones," he says, making McCoy's scowl deepen further.

"Yeah. Could have been _you_," replies an irascible drawl. "He has an unfair advantage, Captain," the doctor concludes, glancing over his shoulder, "With a face like that…"

The object of this remark says nothing. Seated at the table, he continues his task of gathering, sorting, and putting away a variety of colored plexine disks, as serenely as though he hadn't heard the doctor's expression of repressed frustration.

The doctor raises his voice, just a hair - although he knows full well that he had been heard very clearly, in fact. "Captain, you sure they don't need a new Science Officer on the _Intrepid_?"

"No, Bones, we need him here," Captain Kirk replies.

He turns to the Science Officer. "Well done, Commander," he says, with the formality he prefers to set aside, if he can. For his First Officer, he makes an exception: After an evening of (comparatively) relaxed equality, he considers it sort of a system re-set, allowing the other a dignified return to full Vulcan reserve.

Mr. Spock simply nods.

Kirk smiles and looks at Uhura. She is collecting the cards, neatening them with a few swift taps on the tabletop. "Good Night, Lieutenant," he says, and his warm tone makes it clear he means it.

Uhura looks up with a smile. "Good Night, Captain, sleep tight."

Then the Captain is moving toward the door, gathering Doctor McCoy in his wake. He throws a quick grin over his shoulder, before speaking to the still-frowning surgeon. "Oh, yeah, Bones," he says, as the door opens in front of them, "We definitely need Spock here: Someone has to keep you in line."

"And keep _you_ humble, you –" The rest of the Doctor's retort is cut off by the closing 'whoosh' of the door.

There is a small silence, then, in the Briefing Room.

Lieutenant Uhura slides the cards into their sleeve, and securely closes the flap. She looks at the deck in her hands, weighs it in her palm; and speaks without moving, her voice very quiet, "Commander, I wondered… do you have plans, later, to play chess, or something, with the Captain?"

Commander Spock's voice is level, detached; he has almost completed his task. "No, Lieutenant, I have made no arrangements of that kind."

After a second, Uhura turns and brings the package of cards over to where Mr. Spock is straightening disks, long fingers wrapped around them, caging the columns. She drops the deck unceremoniously onto the table in front of him. It makes a dull thud; his hands still.

There is another tiny silence. Then the last of the poker chips are slipped into their case, the lid firmly secured.

She steps closer - well into his personal space - and turns, arms crossed on her breast. As she leans back against the table, one hip negligently grazes lightly against his arm. She is definitely too close for Vulcan comfort.

Spock places her deck of cards neatly onto the box of poker chips - His hand drops, then, to his thigh, unobtrusively breaking their physical contact.

There is another silence, before he lifts his eyes to hers. His face is unreadable.

She looks down at him. "You played well, tonight, Mr. Spock." She uncrosses her arms, and presses her hands against the edge of the table, her back arching just a little, and just for a second. It is probably an unconscious action – a stretch, maybe, after sitting too long. "You're surprisingly lucky."

He starts to speak; and she shakes her head, looking down at him, still, unsmilingly. "I meant 'lucky.' You might believe in skill, sir, more than luck - but I'm pretty sure that everyone here tonight would agree that you're lucky."

Again there is a silence. Then Uhura leans forward, her body shifting markedly toward his; and his eyes follow hers through the movement as far as they can, until she comes too close. "If you play your cards right, for the rest of the evening," she says, her voice dropping as she comes closer, "you might find…" Her lips are close enough to his ear that she knows he has to be feeling the breath behind her words. As she whispers, her lip brushes his skin delicately; and in that instant, she hears a tiny hitch in his breathing. She smiles: "…you are very lucky, indeed, Commander."

His eyes sweep her form as she straightens away from him. "Hmmm," is all he says.

It is all he needs to say: Her widening smile speaks for both of them.

* * *

She lays her cards out on the floor between them, inhaling the warm dry spice-scented air of his quarters. Her voice is quiet - but there is an undeniable note of triumph within it as she says, tapping the cards to illustrate her words, "Fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six, and a straight eight makes fourteen." She looks up at him, to see whether he concurs with her assessment. Apparently he does: He does not disagree. He simply waits.

She reaches and moves the little golden peg: Five, five, five-take-away-one. Fourteen.

She sits back and eyes him appraisingly a moment, then says, "Left boot."

He says nothing. He unfolds his legs from underneath him; and bends the left one up. He leans forward, his arms wrapping around thigh and calf, to undo the bindings. Watching him, she takes in the play of muscles beneath his clothing, the arc of his neck, the unconscious grace in everything he does... Without meaning to, she exhales – an appreciative sigh. His motion stills; only his eyes shift to meet hers. Then they shift away, veiled - and he starts to remove the boot, fully aware that she is watching him.

She is on her hands and knees, then, one hand outstretched; her fingers barely brush his as they finish working the fastenings. All movement stops. His eyes rise to hers once more, then drop to where her skin is making fleeting contact with his own. She moves a little closer, and reaches to pull off his boot, very slowly, revealing a long foot wrapped in fine black Vulcan wool.

She sits back, taking the boot with her. She places it next to her, caressingly - with evident satisfaction, and delight with her trophy.

Dark eyes study her a moment.

Long pale fingers flip over the card on top of the stack, gather up its fellows, begin efficiently to shuffle.

Her eyes move from those fingers up over the strong hands - against which the bowed cards bridge - to the flashing braid at the ends of the long blue sleeves. She can just see the hint of black beneath the edge of the blue.

She considers carefully: It can't be hopeless. Can it? One boot, two socks, blue tunic, black shirt, black thermal undershirt, pants, underwear... No, not hopeless surely?

She usually wears more.

The cards make a small silken rustle in the silence, as he deals almost too swiftly to see. He places the remainders precisely, neatly, mid-way between them, aligned with the edge of the board. He waits politely for her to pick up her cards, before collecting his own. One glance, and he has selected two to place tidily in front of him.

She fans her cards, studies them - shifting them a few times into various combinations. With a small groan, she drops two onto the ones he has chosen. Without comment, he neatens them.

She looks at his face. Licking her lips, she slowly reaches out and lifts part of the remainder stack – very careful to make her cut as annoyingly random as she can…

Composed, Spock will ignore such provocations.

A five. (A five!)

She looks at him again, trying to suppress her smile – probably unsuccessfully – but he'd never comment on her lack of success in such matters. His face reveals nothing, and she wants – just for a second – to shake his restraint. But that can wait.

"Nine," she says, the card making a quick 'thwap' as she snaps it down.

"Nineteen."

"Twenty-seven."

"Go," he says.

There is a pause. Long fingers move the golden peg forward for her; and she finds herself unable to look away from them.

It is her turn; she should just play. She blinks; she plays. As the cards are revealed, one by one - hers, then his – she shivers, just a little, in the warm, warm air.

She counts out, and takes her seven points, her gold peg jumping forward five-and-two.

But Spock will definitely gain twelve or more this hand, she thinks. That means…

His voice is even. She feels the little shiver, again - dancing up her spine and spreading across her skin in a delicious anticipatory wave. "Fifteen eight, a straight eight, and nobs are seventeen." He coolly moves his peg in one go: No 'three fives and a two' for him - and no unseemly triumph. He raises his eyes to hers. Then, after a lingering second, they rake boldly over her body in frank assessment and meet hers again, one black brow rising.

He will not make a demand.

She slowly reaches up and pulls out her ponytail-holder, shaking out her hair, luxuriously, to fall around her. She raises both hands and runs her fingers through it sensually, languidly - lifting it off her neck - dropping it heavily to swirl around her shoulders in a dark silken cascade. This time, she is the one aware of being watched…

Then she holds the hair band up for him to see. He extends one hand, palm upwards, and she drops the band into it – perhaps a bit dismissively.

Without comment, he adds it to the items already neatly arrayed next to him: Feminine Starfleet-issue boots, stockings, red dress, two earrings, a necklace, a single bobby pin. A hair band.

She spares a passing glance for the unexposed hand face-down in front of him. She knows she's given him two points – and another two, with the five from the deck - oh, and two more with the pair - but it can't be helped…

Hopeless.

She smiles into his eyes, her lips curling lazily upward.

Behind her smile, she's thinking: He probably won't get twelve…. Next turn, she'll have the crib: She'll get two hands to his one. (Then after that, she'll count first.) She is determined: She'll go straight for his Blue.

Spock silently flips the remaining hand. Her generous complacency and pleasurable anticipation change to unremitting shock: Impossible! It simply isn't possible… But, in fact, three fives are surrounding the King of Hearts she gave him, and the five already facing upward on the top of the deck is enough to explain the tiny smile in the eyes of the sword-wielding king.

She gasps, and her companion glances at her momentarily before directing his attention to the game-board - where his silver pin is leapfrogging off the end of the track to the winning position. His thumb and forefinger release their delicate grasp; and as his hand moves away - revealing the remainder of the board - the inequality of their play is laid bare.

Not only has he won, Uhura thinks, he's thoroughly spanked her.

His eyes are raised to hers, once more.

He moves just a little, wrapping his arm, again, around one folded-up leg. His other hand is on his raised knee - His eyes don't drop as he lowers his chin to rest on it, his head angled, a little, to one side.

Uhura is still gaping at him. "I can't believe it!" she says at last, "You double-skunked me."

Spock's eyes cut to the board just for a second, then back to her: "I won, Nyota. Again."

"I know, but…"

There is a little gleam, now, in his eye (of satisfaction? amusement? anticipation? She isn't sure – maybe all three). His frank stare is back – She hasn't moved, and his eyebrow is rising.

She shakes her head, still disbelieving; but she will do this right. Gazing into his eyes - daring him to look away - she reaches up to undo the front clasp of her bra; she peels it off - as gracefully as she can, as insouciantly – very much aware of those deep, deep brown eyes.

She holds it up, for him to see. Without comment, he lifts his chin, turns his hand palm-upward between them. She drops the garment into it. His leg shifts downward as he turns his body to add the latest to his spoils… she feels his vigilance relaxing… and then she is in his arms, wrapping herself around him. Only his sense of balance - and reflexes swiftly employed - prevent her knocking him flat. His hands close about her.

She is half-laughing, half-scolding, "You're the luckiest man I've ever met!"

Unguarded eyes gaze into hers for a moment. Then pale lids drop.

In silence, long fingers sweep over her skin, drifting unhurriedly southwards from her scapulae. Warm hands pull her body in closer to his; and her legs tighten around his waist. He murmurs softly: "I cannot deny it."

She smiles, burying her face in his shoulder.

There is a small, contented silence, before she feels him draw breath to speak once more.

"You do realize, Nyota," he says, "that you will always be -" Hearing that certain something in his voice, she makes a small breathy purr-like sound; and he falls immediately silent. One strong hand gently traces her spine upward, draws her hair to one side; his lips graze her skin. He tilts his head to rest alongside hers, and he exhales softly, his breath caressing her bare shoulder.

"… the one who wins? Yes, Spock, I know."


End file.
